


(it all comes down to a) childhood fantasy

by midnighttypewriter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky has always been in love with Steve but Steve never knew, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Winter Soldier, but in might get better over time, neither Bucky nor Steve are really okay, past bucky/natasha, usual Winter Soldier warnings apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1614035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighttypewriter/pseuds/midnighttypewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've your friend's memories. His, and the Winter Soldier's. I like Barnes' better."<br/>---<br/>Or the one where James wants to be his own person but there is still a lot of Bucky left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You should be warned that no one in this fic is really alright. (And Steve's way too comfortable with the idea of dying.)

"Bucky?"

"It's James now. Or Yasha, if you'd prefer." Yasha is what Natalia called him and she is one of the few good glimpses among the Winter Soldier's memories. 

Steve' face falls instantly, his shoulders tense and his posture grows guarded and for a moment, James wonders whether he should have lied. Then Steve steps to one side and pushes the door wide open. "Are you coming in?"

"Aren't you going to look for weapons?" James asks, spreading his arms to show Steve there are none to be seen.

Steve shrugs. "You could probably kill me as you are," he says and looks pointedly at James' left arm that reflects the light from inside the apartment. 

James smiles at him.

When he became a person again, the serum in his cells repairing his brain fast without Hydra's scientists drilling holes in it, he had to make a decision. He needed to choose what to do with his life now that he did have a choice. For Bucky Barnes, the future after the war had always been Steve. He would have gone where Steve led him. The Winter Soldier was not allowed plans of his own. His future was always the next mission, the orders to follow, and then the cryo-freeze. James Barnes has only one wish: to destroy all that remains of Hydra.

But the Winter Soldier memories of the organization can take him only so far. He doesn't know enough, he has limited access to weapons, and trying to keep himself fed takes too much time and effort. He needs information and resources and there are no favors he can call in. No one owes the Winter Soldier anything; he was a weapon and had no friends. Even the people he helped to train are either dead or turned enemies. Everyone Bucky Barnes knew is long gone.

Except for Captain Steven G. Rogers. 

James calls him Steve in his head, because that's the name that comes most readily to his mind. It's Bucky Barnes' name for him, yes, but it's Steve's name for himself, too, and so it works for James as well.

Steve, who watches him cautiously, but leads him into the kitchen of his Brooklyn apartment that mixes 40s sense of style with the technology of the 21st century. Steve, who was Bucky Barnes' best friend. Steve, who could be James Barnes' ally, if James trusted anyone enough for that. He doesn't. There're things Steve can give him, however. Steve has all James needs and James has all the reasons to believe he is willing to share. 

"Can I've something to eat?" James ask and sits down at the table, because the last thing he has eaten was a stolen protein bar and though he knows he can go days without sustenance, he also knows it will drain him eventually. Not soon, not as fast as it would a regular man, but it will.

Steve nods wordlessly. He opens the fridge without taking his eyes off James and takes out a takeout box. "Leftovers. I could cook something, but I guess you'd prefer eating now," he says in a way of apology as he fishes out a fork from a drawer and hands both items to James.

"Yes," James says and grabs the box and pauses when he realizes it's full. "Leftovers, you say?"

Steve shrugs. "I order more than one. I eat more than one." 

"Thanks." He stares at the food for a moment longer, but then decides that even if Steve had a reason to put anything in it, he wouldn't have had the time. James's been watching him the whole time. 

James doesn't even really know what he is eating, something with rice and eggs and a lot of spice, but he shovels it into his mouth as if he had a time limit. He doesn't really care. He hasn't realized he has been actually hungry until he doesn't even stop to think whether he likes the taste.

Steve stands above him, watching him with intent gaze.

"What're you doing here?" he asks finally. "Not that I'm not happy, but- Why now?"

James shrugs. He finishes his food and licks his lips before speaking. "I've your friend's memories. His, and the Winter Soldier's. I like Barnes' better." 

"You talk about yourself in the third person now?" 

Placing the fork into the empty takeout container and pushing both away across the table, James shakes his head. "Doesn't really feel like me," he explains. He has all the memories and knows all the thoughts that went with them, but they're a movie in his head. It's a good thing, he is sure, because some of Bucky's memories would break anyone. Some of the Winter Soldier's are worse.

"But you've come here." 

James can't read Steve as well as Bucky could, perhaps because Steve has changed while they were separated or because James can't read anyone very well these days past noticing the weak points in their defense. He can, however, tell that there is a hint of hope to Steve's voice. He searches James' face for something which is not there.

"I had nowhere else to go." It's true, to a point. James could survive on his own and probably even fulfill his goal. There are ways to it without allies. But the blood trail he would leave in his wake, with no excuse of Hydra brainwashing, would condemn him forever. There would be no way back, ever. He isn't sure he is ready for that sort of commitment. "And I trust you." That's more of a lie, but it's the right thing to say, because Steve's expression opens instantly. 

"Are you staying, then?"

"Will you let me?"

Steve nods and the corners of his mouth curl up. "You just need to… shine my shoes sometimes, maybe."

James knows that Steve hopes to invoke some feeling, nostalgia or companionship. He wants James to miss him the way Steve misses Bucky. James doesn't. There're things that he wants to say, based on Bucky's memories. _Do you realize what it meant to your friend? Do you know how happy he was when you agreed to move in with him? When you two got an apartment of your own, when he paid the rent for the first time, when he could provide for you? He was playing house with you and sometimes he would pretend it was the same to you. Your friend was sort of a queer, and you never noticed._ Those words are on the tip of his tongue, but they are there to hurt Steve, and James, as much as he wants to hurt someone, has no reason to hurt Steve. It would hurt Steve, and it would hurt Bucky if he was still around, and James has no interest in causing pain to either. 

He simply nods, keeping his expression carefully blank. 

Steve's face falls a little once again. "We'll put couch cushions on the living room floor, okay?" he says. "Indulge me."

***

In the shower, when the warm water is cascading down his back, James decides that this would have been a good idea for this feeling alone.

Steve showed him how to get the shower to work, even though James could have figured it out himself, and gave him a towel and his own sweatpants and t-shirt before leaving him to clean himself up. The clothes are too big. The pants keep riding down on James' hips and the t-shirt leaves most of his right, more slender, arm uncovered. But they're clean and not stolen. James wonders whether Bucky would have found comfort in wearing Steve's clothes and decides that yes, he would. James is just glad to have something to wear.

"Do you have a razor blade?" he asks when he steps out of the bathroom, his hair dripping water on his shoulders. Neither Bucky nor the Soldier minded the stubble, but James desires the control over his appearance. 

"I've an electric razor." Steve is sitting on the floor, where he has already arranged the couch cushions, pillows, and blankets for a place to sleep. He is wearing a plain white t-shirt and light blue pajama pants; it makes him look innocent and vulnerable and James can't quite understand how he has survived so long when he trusts so easily. 

He frowns and shakes his head. "I don't like the sound," he explains. He sits down to Steve slowly, leaving enough space between the two of them. Bucky would use any excuse to get close, for warmth or for intimacy, but James doesn't want to. 

"I can get one for you tomorrow," Steve offers and lies down, on his front with his arms folded under his head, but he is still watching James with his searching blue eyes.

James nods and runs his fingers through his wet hair to get it out of his face. "Do you think I should cut my hair?"

"Do you want to? I could help."

He thinks about it for a moment and then shakes his head. "Not really. But it gets in my face." He brushes more strands out of his eyes. 

"I can get you hair elastics when I'm getting you the razor."

James lies down to Steve, suddenly uncertain whether he will really be able to sleep with someone else so close, in a place so warm, among the soft blankets. "Thanks."

***

James is a light sleeper. The Soldier has no memories of ever having really slept, but Bucky was easy to wake, too. He would stay up for hours, listening to Steve's wheezy breathing and worried that if he fell asleep, life would slip out of his friend.

James listens to Steve sleep, too. He listens for the changes in Steve's breathing to know that he has truly fallen asleep and he is surprised when it happens. He wants to look down on Steve for letting this happen. James could so easily kill him now, without much trouble.

And Steve would let him.

Steve let the Soldier kill him. _Then finish it... because I'm with you 'till the end of the line,_ he said and went pliant under the Soldier's hands. The fact that he is still alive is a mere accident, a strange crack in the Soldier's programming that allowed Bucky's instincts to surface before James took over. If it hadn't been for Bucky Barnes' childhood love for Steve, he would be dead by now.

Steve let him take his life once and would let him again.

And for the first time since he left the banks of Potomac, James finds himself feeling something for another person. 

It's infinite sadness.


	2. Chapter 2

James wakes up before Steve, but remains put for a long time until Steve starts stirring and opens his eyes. It's dawn and the living room is still dark, but their gazes find one another. The way Steve watches him, it's as if he can't quite believe James is real. He reaches out his hand and it almost touches James' face but ends up hovering in the air between them. James watches it cautiously until it once again settles on the blanket. He isn't sure he wants Steve touching him, but Steve also doesn't feel like a threat. 

"I'm going for a run," Steve says as he gets up to his feet. "Do you need anything? You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen while I'm gone."

James nods. He thinks of all the knives stuck in a wooden block, but he doubts Steve meant any of those. And he isn't sure whether he has any use for them, anyway. Only, with decades of the Winter Soldier's memories, it's strange to be without a weapon. Even Bucky was used to carrying a gun on him.

He waits for Steve to get dressed and leave, listens to his surprisingly light steps on the apartment floors and then outside in the corridor. Only once Steve is gone does James get up and carefully collects all the cushions to place them back on the couch, and picks up the blankets and pillows and neatly places them atop the cushions.

Then he heads for Steve's bedroom. He must start collecting all the information he can get and the living room shelves only hold Steve's casual reading: a few novels and some non-fiction on varied topics. If James had to guess, he would say Steve is trying to catch up on what he missed. There's no computer and nothing that could possibly hold files, and Bucky assumes anything of interest must be in the bedroom. 

James doesn't have the easy trusting nature Steve displays and he approaches the bedroom door cautiously, looking for any sign that Steve might be tracking his movements. There's nothing placed around the doorframe, not even a loose hair.

He takes the handle and finds the door locked.

Maybe Steve isn't as trusting as he seems.

He has no tools but the door shouldn't be difficult to open even with whatever he can find around the apartment. Yet he can't do it without leaving behind some evidence and he doesn't think that "I wanted to put the blankets back onto your bed" would be a good excuse to pick a lock. He needs Steve to trust him.

Perhaps if plays his cards right, Steve will soon let him into his bedroom soon.

The thought calls a grim smile to his face because he remembers. There were many times when Steve let Bucky into his bed, though it was always far more innocent than Bucky would have liked. Usually, it was about shared warmth, but sometimes they shared stories.

_In their matchbox-sized apartment, the floorboards creaked when Bucky stepped on them. There were other noises, though: the street outside was louder at night than during the day, the water pipes wheezed, and Steve's breathing reminded Bucky of the harsh winter wind._

_"Hey, Steve?" he whispered, sitting down onto the edge of Steve's bed and bending to unlace his shoes. "Are you asleep?"_

_"If I had been, I'm not now," Steve answered without turning around, but he didn't sound upset._

_Bucky snickered. Perhaps he was a little drunk, definitely tipsy. He pulled his feet out of his shoes and then slipped under Steve's blanket as he was, in all his clothes. He wrapped his arm around Steve's waist and pulled him against himself until Steve's bony back was flush against Bucky's chest. Steve was never as warm as he should be. "You weren't waiting for me?" he asked with a mock-pout._

_"Didn't know when you'd be back. You had fun?"_

_"Oh, so much. She had the most beautiful blue eyes," Bucky said, imagining Steve's. There'd been no girl, just a bottle of booze and the stale air of the bar. Lately, there hadn't been many girls, not outside the double dates he took Steve on. "Should I ask her if she's a nice friend? We could go dancing Friday night."_

_"That's probably not a good idea."_

_"What, don't you like the girls I find for you?" Bucky had been thinking that if he could just find a dame that would like his Steve, everything would sort itself. He would be free to find a woman for himself then, if only there was someone who'd love Steve the way he deserved. Even if Bucky's heart filled with odd, unnatural ache at the thought of someone else, even a gentle-handed woman, touching Steve, holding him close._

_"The girls don't like me."_

_"Fools," Bucky muttered and buried his face into the crook of Steve's neck, Steve's hair tickling his face, and breathed in Steve's scent. "Fools, all of them."_

***

James abandons his plan to sneak into Steve's bedroom in favor of finding some breakfast. It's not as simple as he would have expected. Even in Steve's apartment, most of which looks a little out of time, the kitchen is full of items he's unfamiliar with. Everything seems to be packaged and prepared differently than in Bucky's memories.

Neither Bucky nor the Soldier knew how to cook. The Winter Soldier always followed his targets too single-mindedly to eat during missions and during other times, his handlers kept him fed without much care for his preferences. And Bucky had Steve, who actually knew how to turn rations into something they could stomach. 

For a moment, he stares at the stove with distrust, then turns his attention to the fridge, the contents of which mostly need at least some sort of preparation. He could figure out how to work the stove, but cooking has always looked a little like magic to him. 

Finally, he settles on a yogurt. It's not really enough to be considered proper breakfast, but it's a good enough start if he is going to learn again how to feed himself like a human being rather than a robot. It's much sweeter than he thought it would be, either because everything in the 21st century has too much sugar or because his taste buds got used to the blandness of the Soldier's meals. He eats it anyway.

Steve comes back later than James has expected, and he carries a plastic bag. "I got you the razor," he says and hands the bag over. 

It contains three t-shirts – white, black, and blue – and a pair of jeans, a razor blade, and two packages of hair elastics. One holds a bunch of simple black ones, the other is Steve's idea of a joke. There are three elastics in obnoxious colors – neon green, vibrant pink, and bright yellow. Instantly, James suspects Steve is trying to provoke a reaction from him. He wonders what Bucky would do.

Without betraying anything, he opens the package and carefully extracts the pink elastic. He looks up at Steve and holds his gaze while he ties his hair back into a ponytail. Steve's brow furrows. 

James smirks. "It's fun when you can't tell when I'm fucking with you."

Steve stares at him for a moment and then lets out a startled laugh.

James keeps the pink elastic in his hair.


	3. Chapter 3

"Aren't you going to report me?" James asks, because by all rights, Steve should have done that already. How can Captain America afford to harbor a person like him? Even if James downright considered himself a blank slate, which he doesn't and can't, those who owned his body before him have done some things the government or the intelligence should want more information about. Not to mention the technology attached to his body or the things he could still possibly do.

Steve shrugs. He is chopping vegetables in practiced motions like he does it every day. He has his back turned to James and his muscles move under his thin shirt in time with his knifework. "What makes you think I haven't already?"

"The lack of men with guys trying to take me down?" James is sitting at the table in the kitchen and he feels oddly at peace there, just watching Steve work. He is wearing his own clothes. They're bought with Steve's money and they're of Steve's choice, but they fit James' body nicely and he could have easily picked them out himself.

"I think this might be the best place for you to be right now." 

Steve, selfless Steve. Yet James hears the echo of Bucky's words in that sentence. 

_It was back when Steve could barely go a week without catching some bug and his mother had only just died a few months back. He was between jobs again, as he usually was, and his artwork wasn't selling well. "You don't have to stick around," he told Bucky and there was no hostility in the words, just concern and guilt. "I can make it on my own." He paused to clear his throat had to drop the pencil he'd been holding to cover his mouth when the coughing started. But the moment he could talk again, he continued with that stubborn look in his eyes: "I can take care of myself. You don't need to let yourself be dragged down."_

_Bucky was regretting he had mentioned that his wage might not be enough to cover their most recent expenses, that he might need to work more hours, perhaps take on something else atop his job in the docks. He hadn't meant to guilt Steve, but only to share his concerns with someone. "Don't," he said, frowning. "I'm not going anywhere. There's nowhere else I'd rather be, nowhere better, okay?" Steve was his home._

_After that, he tried to not worry Steve with financial concerns, but he suspected Steve knew and worried, too._

James isn't sure whether Steve is reminded of that event. It's probably just his own mind too ready to supply Bucky's memories at the slightest impulse. "Aren't you afraid I'll attack you?"

Steve's shoulders tense. "I can take care of myself," he says after a pause and James sighs. Steve rests his knife aside and turns around to look at James. "You haven't told me what you're planning to do."

"I don't really know," James lies. "I'm just… figuring myself out right now, I think." He shruggs. "What about you? What're you doing when you aren't punching around enemies?"

"Trying to figure myself out," Steve echoes. 

After that, they don't talk much for the rest of the day. From time to time, Steve will ask a question ("How is the arm? Does it hurt?" "Do you want to eat?" "How much do you remember?") and James answers as he sees fit ("Not really." "Yes, thanks." "Enough."). Other than that, they spend most of the day in silence that is not as compassionate as they both pretend.

***

James slips into sleep.

He slips into cold. "No." The ice spreads through his bloodstream. It envelops him. It's crushing his chest and his throat, it wraps around his nose, and fills his windpipes. His heart slows down. "No," he mutters, but his tongue is heavy with cold. "Not again."

 _"Bucky? James! James. James!"_

Someone's calling him. 

The voice reached his ears through the layers of ice. Faint. Distant. Far away.

_"James!"_

Familiar. A memory long gone.

Warm hands grab him. He thinks they'll push him deeper into the cold, but they're pulling him out. 

_"Wake up, James. Bucky, c'mon, everything's alright."_

He opens his eyes and takes a gasping breath. 

It takes him a moment to figure out where he is and who is the person leaning over him, fingers twisted into James' shirt. Another moment passes before James releases his hold on Steve's wrists, not having realized he has been holding them. Steve pulls away, but he is still looking at James with concern.

James sits up. "Sorry," he mutters. He is shaking and the ice isn't going away, it has simply transformed into James' own skin. He tries to rub his hands over his upper arms, but it's pointless. His metal arm can't get warm enough like this and his metal hand provides no heat.

"Alright if I touch you?" Steve asks quietly, his hands hovering above James' skin. James looks up at him, startled by the question, then nods.

Steve's hands are warm and gentle as they caress James' arms and shoulders. He shuffles closer and James finds himself enveloped in the comforting warmth of the other man's body. He continues to shake. 

He remembers Bucky doing this for Steve, before the serum, his calloused hands massaging Steve's back and chest to provide warmth, to ease his breathing. It was purely selfless in those moments, even if at other times Bucky's fingers ached to hold Steve's body. 

"Can't get warm," James mutters. He clamps his hands between his thighs and lets Steve do the work. He should feel vulnerable and embarrassed, but his brain is too shaken for anything but the soothing caresses of Steve's palms to register.

"Maybe a warm shower would help?" Steve's voice is gentle, understanding.

"Maybe," James answers but makes no move to get up.

"They kept you frozen, didn't they? Between missions."

James takes a shaky breath, which sounds so loud in the darkness of the living room. "He was always awake for it. All the time." There's wetness on his cheeks and he hasn't realized he's been crying. "Do you- You were in ice, too. Do you remember anything?"

"Just the cold." 

"Yeah. Can't ever get warm again."


	4. Chapter 4

_Bucky took up smoking the day he got a letter from Steve from Basics._

_He was still shaking, with fear and anger – at Steve, at the army, at the world – when a boy sat down to him. He had to be at least eighteen to have those dog tags on his neck, but he looked so young… And yet he looked stronger than Steve. He lit up a cigarette and struck up a conversation. Bucky later couldn't remember most of it, up to that question._

_"Got a girl back home?" the boy (Jack? Johny? He'd forgotten.) asked and handed Bucky the cigarette. The one he'd been smoking._

_Bucky took it, breathed in the smoke, and thought about asthmatic Steve running, climbing and crawling through obstacle courses. "Nah," he answered and handed the cigarette back._

_"Me either. Ain't my thing, ya know?"_

_Bucky knew what this meant and what was on the offer and he immediately wanted to tell the kid to be more careful, because a wrong word to the wrong man could so easily get him hurt. He watched the lips that wrapped around the cigarette. They were nice lips. Not as nice as Steve's but nice enough._

_Yet he heard himself say: "I've got someone."_

_It was a lie and yet it wasn't. Steve wasn't his, but he was Steve's, and he couldn't go with someone else now. Not even in order to distract himself. He couldn't, because who knew how long he'd have now that Steve got himself enlisted and Bucky wasn't there to protect him._

_Not much later, the 107th was captured and Steve's asthma was cured together with all his other ailments._

_Little made sense from then on._

***

"I don't suppose you'd buy me smokes?"

Steve looks at James in surprise and closes the apartment door behind himself as he steps in. "You still smoke?"

James looks pointedly at him, wondering whether Steve'll notice the inappropriateness of "still" in that sentence. Then he shrugs lazily. "I need some new bad habits. To replace… other things." He wants to say "shooting people" but swallows the words at the last moment, but thinks Steve might hear them either way. They've been living together for five days now and they are caught in a strange stalemate. Neither of them quite knows how to approach the other. 

"You could try nail biting," Steve suggests lightly, but his shoulders are visibly tense. He always cringes so visibly when he finds James' jokes to be particularly poor taste. Some deep corner of James' soul actually feels ashamed. "Or maybe blowing bubbles. I can buy you chewing gum."

"Steve, I heal. Maybe not as fast as you do, but trust me, smoking won't do much damage." 

"It's bad for the environment," Steve says and it takes James a moment to realize he is joking. Before he can even react to it, Steve hands him a pile of colorful paper. Leaflets. "Sam… A friend. He gave me these for you to look at."

"You've talked about me to people?" The idea of Steve having friends James doesn't share or even know is strange. Not that he is jealous or disapproves, but it doesn't mesh well with the memories he has.

Steve shifts his gaze away from James and moves towards his bedroom. "He knew I was going to be looking for you. He'd have joined me, so it felt only fair to tell him. Besides, he-" Suddenly, Steve cuts himself off and shook his head.

As Steve makes his way across the apartment, James follows him while flipping through the materials in his hands. Various lists of resources and support groups, mostly aimed at veterans. "Can you really see me going to any of these?"

"Maybe not right now," Steve says. "But if you ever need a place where to start with, well, with everything… I thought it wouldn't hurt if you thought about it."

James looks at him, incredulous. They've make it all the way to Steve's bedroom, though James remains hovering in the doorway. He scans the room with his eyes though, as throughout as he could. There isn't much on display that would be interesting to him or relevant to his goals. Nor is there much in the way of decoration. There is another bookcase, filled with books on art and novels, with closed cabinets at the bottom. The nightstand can hold something interesting too. And perhaps the dresser.

"Do you go to any of these?" he asks. Despite the conversational tone, he means for his question to drive a point home. 

Steve ducks his head and turns to his wardrobe to shuffle through his shirts a little too long. "Not really."

James leans against the doorframe. "Maybe you should." He has witnessed Steve's nightmares as frequently as he has woken up from his own and that's been only in the past few nights. There is more, he knows, that's not all right with Steve. James wonders if Bucky would know what to do with him and how to get him to get help, but he only feels a sense of helplessness when he thinks about it.

"Captain America in group therapy." Steve sighs and shakes his head and looks over his shoulder with a sad smile. "I don't think that would bode will with public."

"It would humanize you," James suggests.

"Not supposed to be human," Steve says and it comes out wrong and they both cringe.

James turns his attention to the bookcase, steps closer to it. He plucks a book at random out of the shelf. "Can I borrow this?"

"Yeah. Yes, of course." Steve actually looks surprised at the idea of James asking. "Whatever you need."

For a moment, James wonders whether he could ask for all the information Steve has on HYDRA. Or for a gun to keep under his pillow. Or for a set of proper knives, and no, he doesn't mean for cooking. He doubts Steve would be willing to help him access any of that. But then he hears himself say: "Steve? Can I ask something?" His voice rings surprisingly meek and vulnerable in his ears. 

Steve nods. He is holding a pile of clothes and is halfway to the bathroom but stops in his tracks to listen to James' question.

"HYDRA… Is anyone doing something? About that?" It's strange how much effort it takes to form these words. There's sudden tremor in his legs that he can't explain.

The corners of Steve's mouth shift down a little. "Fury. The director… Former director of SHIELD. He… Things are being done."

"What about you? You don't…?"

Steve sighs. "I had… a different priority." The gesture he makes towards James is an involuntary one and almost invisible. 

To that, James isn't sure what to say. He wants to say many things but can't find the proper words. 

"It's going to be okay, Buck. We'll get them, as soon as…" Steve trails off. He shrugs awkwardly. 

James nods, uncertain, and only later wonders why he didn't even notice the misnomer until he was replaying the conversation in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has Natasha and I'm so excited about that!


	5. Chapter 5

It takes seven days before James realizes he is putting off trying to leave. Leave for a few minutes, even, let alone to pursue his self-imposed mission. Steve's apartment feels safe. Steve brings him almost anything James asks for, cooks for him, talks to him in guarded but friendly tone. James feels safe, and he tells himself this is what he needed, a few days to just breathe without having to watch his back.

He doesn't realize how much he's let his guard down until he is standing face to face with the Black Widow.

"Natalia Romanova," he says and though he knows the name, pronouncing it feels like trying out a foreign language. They are standing against each other, alert and ready to fight. The Widow is older than he remembers, but it's her. He recalls the images of the Winter Soldier training her, and then later fighting her on that bridge. He isn't sure he could take her down if he needed.

"I go by Natasha now," she says and raises her hands in a half-hearted yielding gesture. "And I'm not here to fight you."

***

_"What's your name? I can't keep calling you the American," she said one of the first times they met. He didn't know how old she was or even what year it happened; that information was not important. The mission was to train her._

_"I don't need a name," he said as he aimed a strike at her revealed left side. She side-stepped his attack, just barely, but then lost the balance and fell to the uncovered concrete floor._

_He reached out to help her up and she kicked him in the face. The sickening noise of his jaw dislocating didn't bother him anymore. The next time they met, she tried to apologize, and it was the first time the Winter Soldier laughed._

_She started calling him Yasha then. He never found out how she came up with that._

_Yasha, short for Yakov. Yakov, Russian for Jacob… or James._

_They were never lovers, it was not possible with the lives – if they were lives – they lived – if it was living – then, but there was something. A spark of feeling for someone who didn't look at his bruises and scars only as a damage to the goods. Someone who cared to give him a name._

***

"James," he introduces himself. "Why are you here, then?" He doesn't relax his fighting stance.

"To raid Steve's kitchen," Natasha says. "I've a craving for sugar." 

James stares at her for a moment. "Did he give you a key?" he asks, finally. 

She shrugs. "Do I need one?" she asks, and it sounds fair enough. She steps forward, James steps to side. She moves past him easily. 

"The top cupboard, right by the fridge," he calls, but finds out his advice was unnecessary, because when he enters the kitchen, Natasha is already standing on a chair with her arms deep in the cupboard.

"So much healthy shit," she groans. "What does Mr. Super-metabolism even need that for?" Finally, after some rummaging, she pulls her hand out and throws a chocolate bar at James. He catches it before it can hit his face.

She jumps off the chair, holding a chocolate for herself, and with her back to him, she says: "I went looking for you. You know, after."

"To kill me," he guesses.

She turns around to face him. "To stop the project."

James nods. He leans against the kitchen table and tears the wrapper open. He hasn't had chocolate in… Since he was Bucky.

"They messed with my head, too," Natasha continues. When he looks up at her, she finishes: "For years I thought I grew up a ballet dancer."

The room suddenly shifts. James' breath catches in his chest, bile raises in his throat. He puts the chocolate aside. He thinks about the terror and helplessness of having no memories, the nightmarish nature of them rushing back… But at least what he knows, he _knows_. "How did you find out?"

Her shoulders raise and fall with a shrug and a sigh. "I came looking for people who didn't exist," she explains. "Found a facility instead." She reaches out and places her hand over his left one and it's only then that he realizes he is threatening to crack the wooden table the way he is clutching it. He is shaking, angry on her behalf and on his own. "You're going to stretch it," she says and for a moment he is confused, but her thumb brushes against the green hairtie around his wrist. 

When Steve comes home, he finds James and Natasha sitting on the sofa with about five inches between them but sharing a blanket, gazes glued to Spongebob Squarepants. James' head feels screwed on wrong, images of a leather chair and flashes of pain spinning in his brain at irregular intervals, but he catches himself smiling a tiny smile when Natasha lifts her end of the blanket and Steve takes the invitation.


	6. Chapter 6

James calls Natasha from Steve's phone in the middle of the night. He is sitting on the edge of the shower tub and shaking. 

"Steve?" Natasha's voice is soft.

"It's James." He holds the phone to his ear with his right hand, his left arm wrapped around his legs, his chest pressed to his knees. 

Any trace of sleepiness disappears from Natasha's voice instantly. "Did something happen? Where are you?"

"No. In Steve's bathroom. No, I-" He takes a shaky breath. "No, I just- How do you know it's real? What you remember?"

There is a long silence on the other end, during which James listened to the sounds from outside. The apartment is quiet, eerily so, but the bathroom has a small window into the street, and the neighborhood never sleeps. 

"I don't," she says.

"Then how do you- What do you-"

"I just go with it. You need to, or you'll never-" She pauses. "The past, you can make up a new one if you wish. The present is real and you've got to live in the present, because that's the only thing you can affect."

James nods. For a few minutes he listens to Natasha's breathing, then he says: "Okay. Yeah." He hangs up afterwards, but he doesn't move with the exception of placing the phone on the edge of the sink. His body is still shaking.

The memories he has, they seem unbelievable but they should be real. He didn't doubt them until now, because everything adds up, and there is that display in the Smithonian, and there are the books he can read. It all says the same story.

Only… There are so many coincidences. He and Steve, both ending up in the 21st century, still approximately the same age, both of them superhuman. It sounds like something Bucky, age fourteen, would have dreamed up on a restless evening. It sounded exactly like it, because in Bucky's fantasies, Steve was always the hero and if shit happened, it happened to Bucky, because Steve was not allowed to get hurt. 

Maybe he fell asleep in the 1930s and everything after that was a strange, strange dream. 

Or maybe some of it happened and he is still in the cryo, his brain coming up with stories while it has nothing to interact with but itself.

Maybe he is dead.

If he is dead-

"Bucky?" 

Steve's sleepy voice interrupts James' thoughts and he is grateful for it, because it feels like he is reeling towards a very dark place. "James," he corrects. It's barely a sound, his voice cracks. He clears his throat and repeats his name again.

"Sorry," Steve whispers, but he sounds more alert. He knees down opposite James without bothering to turn on the light in the bathroom. "What're you doing in here? Is something wrong?"

Everything's wrong. "Couldn't sleep. Sorry if I woke you up." 

Steve shakes his head. "No, I had a- I woke up and you weren't around." He places his hands on James' forearms where his arms are wrapped around his legs. James slowly shifts, moves his arms, rests his hands on Steve's face. He cups Steve's face with his palms and rubs his thumbs against Steve's cheekbones. This is something he doesn't remember Bucky ever doing, though he knows he imagined it often. In Bucky's fantasies, they would kiss: long and gentle without any need for air, or passionate and messy. He never acted on them, never hinted at his thoughts to Steve.

James doesn't kiss Steve now. He merely searches his face in the dim light falling on it through the tiny window. Steve's eyes are wide and his lips part just a fraction.

"Are you real, Steve?" he asks when he finally locks his gaze with Steve's.

Steve blinks. He cups James' hands with his own. "Yes. Yes, James, I'm real, I promise. I'm as real as it gets, okay?" 

And for a moment, the name rings false to Bucky's ears. But then he pulls back and shifts so there is more space between him and Steve. He is sitting almost in the shower now instead of on the edge of it. "How do I know?"

Steve opens his mouth but instead of speaking he takes a deep breath first. "I don't know," he admits. "You're just going to have to trust me. Do you trust me?"

"I don't know. Why should I?" 

James' words make Steve flinch visibly but he composes himself. "I never lied to you."

"How do I know that?" 

"You've known me your whole life." 

That means nothing. James knows that Bucky kept secrets from Steve, there is no reason to believe Steve was always honest with him. 

Only…

Only it's Steve, and even as wary as he is, he finds it impossible to not trust whatever he says. He could further question how Steve knows whether he is real, but they'd get nowhere that way. If none of this is real, does it matter? Unless he can find a way out-

And then, suddenly, he remembers the helicarrier. 

It has to be real because Bucky's brain would never conceive the idea of Steve giving up or backing out of a fight. 

The moment of relief is only brief, because then sadness crashes into him again, and it's all encompassing. 

However, again it's Steve's voice that brings James out of the abyss of his mind. "Can I hug you?"

Without words, James surges forward and wraps his arms around Steve's torso. Steve places his own around James' shoulders. He rubs James' back, his nose buried in James' hair. Steve's massive body is solid and warm and real. 

They sit like that for long minutes, simply holding each other, their chests rising in sync. 

Then James feels Steve's fingers in his hair and it takes him a moment to realize that Steve is gathering the loose strands into a ponytail. Where Steve has an elastic from, James doesn't know, but a few moments later his hair is held securely back and Steve pulls out of the hug. 

"Let's get some sleep," he says quietly and gets up before helping James to his feet as well. 

His arm around James' waist, he leads him to the bedroom instead of their little nest on the living room floor. There are no pillows or blankets and the mattress is too soft, but James curls up on it without a protest and melts against Steve's body the moment Steve circles James' body with his arm. If he is trying to help James remember he is there, he is succeeding. If he is trying to persuade him it's not all a fantasy… well.


	7. Chapter 7

James wakes up in the middle of Steve's bed in a dip in the mattress and with his own left arm wrapped around his legs. He woke up suddenly. One moment he was fast asleep, the next his eyes were wide open.

It's eerily quiet; he can't hear a sound within the apartment. 

For a moment, he waits.

No footsteps. No sound of the television or music. Not even breath.

Is he alone?

He sits up and listens further. All the sound that he can hear is coming from the outside. Then it hits him.

He is alone in Steve's bedroom for the first time and the apartment is empty. He has been inside a few times but always for too short a time, always with Steve around. 

James gets up. His ponytail loosened during the night and he reaches up and takes the hairtie off, wraps it around his wrist. Now would be the time to explore the many drawers and cabinets, yet his feet carry him out through the door and he tells himself that the desire to see where Steve could have disappeared to is simply about finding out how much time he has to himself. 

He has an irrational moment of fear that the door might close behind him on its own, lock him out. He looks over his shoulder, but of course the bedroom is still open. 

In the kitchen, he finds a note on the table together with two bags of hair elastics. He picks the note up to read.

_Hey,_  
 _I had to go out but don't worry, it's nothing serious. I'll be back before lunch, but help yourself to anything in the fridge in the meanwhile._  
 _Steve_  
 _PS: I noticed you don't wear the black ones and I hear people complain how easily hairties are lost._  
 _PPS: ~~When you borrow my phone, put it back on the charger?~~ I'll get you your own phone._

James places the note back on the table, smoothes its cornes, and picks up the bags of elastics. One is full of hairties in earth tones: browns, oranges, and greens. The other is all purples and blues with thin gold and silver stripes. It reminds James of how Bucky used to leave little treats for Steve on the table or the bed, avoided being there when Steve'd find the pencils or sketchbooks or sweets. Steve tried to protest, always, argued that Bucky should buy something for himself for once.

_"I just want you to have nice things," Bucky said and he didn't want to admit how much pleasure it gave him when he could do something for Steve._

_Steve was glaring at him with that defiant expression of his, the blue eyes narrowed and the chin slightly raised. "You spoil me. You waste money on me," he protested. "You need them yourself."_

_"Please," Bucky waved his hand. "I got the money to spoil ya. Folks keep me fed, I earn enough to buy a treat for my best guy."_

_It wasn't true. The money he earned moving crates and helping out in a garage was just enough to pay his share of the rent and his share of the food expenses. Just barely enough to set aside for a new shirt he was going to need soon. Just barely enough to save for the winter when Steve's lungs would inevitably betray them both. And his parents… they never turned him down when he showed up for dinner, but they were starting to make it obvious that since moving out had been his idea, he should start taking care of himself. And they hinted that, as much as they personally liked the Rogers boy, people were starting to talk about way Bucky treated him. (And here Bucky worried more about Steve than himself. If people thought – knew – Bucky was some sort of a queer, he could always show them up with his fists. But if someone thought to teach Steve a lesson about the unnatural… And how upset Steve would be if he heard people thought Bucky treated him like his sweetheart...)_

_"Draw me something pretty. You can't draw for me if you've got nothing to draw with," he said to Steve when Steve protested against the gifts. Later, Bucky saw him sketching something with a focused expression on his face, his lips turned up in a little smile._

_Steve sold some of his drawings later, dropped some of the coins in the emergency fund jar and bought Bucky a slice of pie with the rest._

***

James pulls out a purple hairtie and carefully ties his hair back before returning to Steve's bedroom. He finds the door just as open as he's left it and only then some of the tension in his chest dissolves. He looks around and decides to take it clockwise, looking through the drawers one by one. Folded underwear, socks sorted by color, neatly ironed shirts. Finally, in one drawer he finds a double bottom.

He places Steve's clothes onto the bed carefully and takes out the plywood in the bottom of the drawer. It's all too easy.

A moment later, he finds himself staring at a file written in Russian. 

He almost drops the piece of plywood on his foot when he realizes what he is looking at, exactly, but he ends up carefully placing it aside, leaning it against the side of the dresser. He takes the file out and with it in his hand, he settles on the bedroom floor.

It's his file.

Or, at least, it's a file on the Winter Soldier.

He opens the cover and finds himself staring at a picture of face that could be his. It's the same face he sees in the mirror in the morning, when he assiduously shaves himself with the razor Steve brought him, just hazy through the glass of a cryo chamber. Trapped in time. It's a strange sight and even stranger feeling. Strange and nauseating.

He starts reading.

It tells him nothing new, except it gives him an address for one now closed down facility and hits at two more as well as four safehouses. It's enough for the beginning. 

That's not what he's thinking about when he reads.

_This is what they've done to me._

_No, not me. To the Winter Soldier._

This isn't him. This is not what he's done. Not what was done to him.

It is, though.

He is the one who fell from the train. He placed a gun to a begging man's forehead and pulled the trigger without a moment of hesitation. He was the one who grew up treating Steve's bruises and fantasizing about Steve's mouth. He screamed in the chair while they were digging through his brain.

_No._

"James?"

Steve is standing in the doorframe, his face pale. James grabs the side of the dresser and pulls himself up. Everything is hazy, as if he was looking through a fog.

"I think- I think I have to leave." His voice is weak and it comes to his ears from a great distance. "Yes, I have to go."

He stumbles past Steve who doesn't try to stop him. He escapes through the front door and holds onto the railing with both hands as he shakily walks down the stairs. The world is swaying and he keeps tripping over his own feet.

Somehow he makes his way outside.

He forgot how busy that street was.

All the cars and people. Colors and smells. The noises. Those noises are the worst.

He turns around and is grateful to find the expanse of Steve's chest. He buries his face into the gray hoodie Steve is wearing and clutches at his sleeves. Steve envelopes him in his warm embrace.

"You're not wearing shoes," Steve says gently.

It's only in that moment that James realizes he is still only in the t-shirt and boxers he slept in, and barefoot. He lets Steve steer him inside again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why there's no mention of Bucky's photo in the military uniform: I believe Steve keeps it in his wallet.
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for all your support.


	8. Chapter 8

_Bucky wasn't going to cry, but every time a new jolt of pain went through his body, he came closer to tears. It took him almost the whole morning to find a position in which his stomach ached less, and he didn't feel quite so nauseous._

_The only relief came from Steve's cool bony fingers combing through his sweat-soaked hair. "…shouldn't be here," Bucky heard himself mutter anyway, because even curled up in a fetal position and wishing for the bed to swallow him up and take away his suffering, he thought about how fragile Steve's health was. Someone sneezed his way and he was bed ridden for days. Yet Steve never cried. Bucky would bet that Steve wouldn't be thinking the same whiny things Bucky was now. No, Steve would probably be fighting battles in his mind with the sickness. Steve, in his breakable body, was so much stronger than Bucky would ever be._

_Steve made a hushing sound and Bucky wasn't a strong enough man to argue with him. Besides, if Steve was here with him, he couldn't be out there picking fights. The bruises from the last one had yet to heal._

***

"You can ask for things," Steve says.

They're sitting in the kitchen, opposite from each other, Steve's arms halfway across the table as if he wanted to cradle James' hands but wasn't certain he should or was allowed to. James has stopped shaking some time ago, though he is unsure how much time has passed since his disastrous attempt to leave. The tightness in his chest has loosened but now he is awkward from embarrassment. 

"I do ask," he mutters, his gaze glued to his own hands folded in his lap. He is strangely aware of how cold and inhuman his left arm is; he usually doesn't notice. It's a part of him and it functions and obeys, he doesn't think about it much.

"What were you even looking for?" 

James shuffles in his seat. "Information." He could do better, he knows, but he is in no state to lie. 

"You can just ask," Steve says, his voice soft. He gets up to his feet and leans against the kitchen counter. "You know, Sharon suggested you might think you can't leave the apartment."

James huffs in response. "You can tell her I just can't dress myself correctly." Then he pauses. "Who is Sharon?" 

"She lives in the apartment below." 

James chews on his lip as he processes the information. Steve keeps talking about him to people. Sam, whose face James vaguely recalls from the encounter on the bridge and the Helicarrier. Natasha, probably, but James talks to her as well. This Sharon, whoever she is. Who else? James isn't sure how to feel about it.

"Speaking of," Steve says suddenly and hastily leaves the kitchen. When he returns, he is holding a box in one hand and he hands it to James. "I got you the phone."

James take the new StarkPhone out of the box and turns it over in his hand a few times. There are things he knows how to use without remembering learning it and smart phones are among those; HYDRA has likely pumped the knowledge straight into the Winter Soldier's brain. He assumes Steve will cover his phone bill, but also that he will be able to track his calls, should he wish to. Unfortunately, James has no idea how to reroute a phone as that was not a skill the Soldier ever needed... then again, he also doesn't have any secret calls to make.

"There're some numbers pre-programmed in it already. Me, Natasha, Sam, and Sharon," Steve says.

For Steve and Natasha's numbers, James is grateful. He can even sort of understand why Steve threw in Sam's as well. "What do I use Sharon's for?"

"Maybe to let her know she left clothes behind, I don't know," Steve says. James gives him a confused look and Steve lets out a sheepish chuckle. "She uses my washing machine sometimes."

"Yeah?" James wonders what this Sharon is like, whether she is young and easy on the eyes, whether she can carries a gun and speaks her mind and calls Steve out on his shit. He thinks about it so that he doesn't have to think about how his body still doesn't feel right. It feels both weird and strangely familiar, because he remembers doing something similar – Bucky doing something similar – back in the war, that evening at the bar when it was easier to think about how perfect Agent Carter was for Steve than it was to wonder what exactly had happened to him on that table. Even though it hurt almost equally as much – but at least with that one Bucky knew it would turn out well once his happiness for Steve overweighted the pain from the broken heart. James doesn't feel brokenhearted now. He just feels a little more pressure in the center of his chest, but that is from anxiety, nothing else.

"I have a washing machine, she doesn't. That's it, I swear," Steve is saying. There is a faint blush on his cheeks and even without that the fact that he feels the need to defend himself speaks volumes. "This one time something from her laundry got left behind and now I own half a dozen purplish undershirts." 

James doesn't say anything, just looks at Steve, and something in his gaze must convey that he doesn't quite believe him, because Steve spreads his arms in a gesture of resignation. "Okay, I tried but it didn't lead anywhere. And now I do her laundry."

James' laugh startles them both. James clears his throat. "I think I should meet this Sharon."

"Really?"

"So that I don't accidentally kill her when she comes to pick up her undergarments."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost uploaded this to a completely different WiP, that would have been awkward. I should have fewer WiPs... but instead I'm considering writing more stories, because I am constantly overloaded with ideas. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and other forms of support! I love writing for you guys.


	9. Chapter 9

_"Ya know," Steve said, stepping up on his toes to look at himself in their inadequate mirror, "Someone asked yesterday how my wife got my clothes so neat." He often sounded bitter when relaying comments like that, ones that reminded him he continued to go unnoticed by the girls of Brooklyn, but he had to be in good mood at the moment. There was a hint of amused smile._

_Bucky chuckled. He stepped behind Steve and fixed his collar. "Lotta patience," he said, though the truth was he simply liked ironing. It was a hard work, exhausting, and took a long time and sometimes, when he had worked long shifts, he really didn't want to do it. But when he brought himself to start, it was calming and helped his thoughts to run in one stream instead of jumping around and dancing from topic to topic._

_"Didn't know that was one of your virtues," Steve teased. His clothes were a little too big for him and not new, but he looked nice, he looked so handsome and sweet the way his hair was falling into his face, and Bucky was so in love his chest ached._

_"My only one," Bucky said and stepped away before he did something stupid. If he was Steve's wife, or Steve was his, or something – he didn't think he really had much of a preference there – he would be allowed to kiss Steve goodbye when wishing him a nice day. As it were, he couldn't even hug him in fear of putting wrinkles into the meticulously ironed shirt._

***

Sharon, it turns out, is a pretty blonde with a friendly smile that doesn't match the gun holstered under her denim jacket. There's at least one, but James wouldn't be surprised if there were more hidden under her clothes. She is carrying a plastic basket full of laundry. "I'll throw these things in first," she says and moves towards the bathroom where Steve, the strange person, keeps the washing machine. She keeps her eyes on James as she walks and she tries to make it seem casual, but he can tell it's a calculated move; Sharon doesn't want to turn her back to James.

"Coffee?" Steve calls after her.

"Two sugars."

"I know!" Steve has an easy smile on his face, one that James hasn't seen since… ever, actually. It's one only from Bucky's memories. 

James leans his back against the doorframe between the kitchen and the living room, keeping track of both Steve and Sharon. It's the most tense he has been in the past few days, but he doesn't want Steve to notice. "Was I keeping the lady from doing her laundry in the past few weeks?" he asks, as casual as he can.

"There's a machine in the basement," Steve says. "We weren't sure-"

"You could have asked," James interrupts him, hoping he sounds teasing. 

Steve offers him an uncertain shrug and an embarrassed smile before handing him a tray with coffee mugs and ushering him out of the kitchen. They settle on the sofa just in time for Sharon to come back. 

James stands up to shake her hand and immediately regrets it. He is awfully aware of all the ways they could hurt each other where it would start with simply their hands touching. Sharon is a stranger, and she is armed, and she watches him like a threat – and he knows he is watching her the same way.

"Sharon Carter," she says. Carter; of course. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"James. Barnes, I suppose." 

Her hand is soft and warm and their handshake lasts only the briefest moment. James takes a deep breath and sits down. "Which agency do you work for?" he asks when Sharon takes a seat in the armchair opposite from him. Steve's sitting next to James, his large body a calming presence by James' side. 

"Pardon me?" Sharon takes her coffee mug. She holds it in her left hand even though he can tell, from where her gun holster is concealed, she is right-handed.

"I assume you worked for SHIELD?" James asks. He glances at Steve to see whether he knew. Steve is looking between James and Sharon with a concerned expression, and he looks almost as tense as James feels. "Who're you with now? Don't tell me you work for a private security or something." Sometimes, he isn't sure how he knows how the world of the 21st century works. A lot of it probably comes from overheard conversations during the Winter Soldier years. 

"CIA," she says. The way she says it, he sees she didn't plan to reveal this fact but now that he's made some guesses, sees no reason to pretend. James would ask what she could possibly be doing for the CIA here if it weren't so obvious. 

Before either of them can continue, Steve interrupts them. "James? The novel you've just finished," he says and James hasn't even realized that Steve kept track of which books he plucked out of Steve's shelves. "Sharon recommended that one." 

The message is clear and both James and Sharon try to have a friendly conversation after that, but it isn't until she leaves that James feels some of the tension dissipate. 

"We're being watched by the CIA," he tells Steve as he helps him collect the empty mugs and carry them to the kitchen. The smell of coffee and laundry detergent still lingers in the air and James wonders if that's usually the case with Sharon's visits. 

"And SHIELD, or what's left of it," Steve says. He doesn't seem upset.

"You're not bothered by it?" 

Steve looks up from where he is loading the dishwasher and shrugs. "It's not pleasant but it's nice to know it's going on," he says and James guesses it wasn't always the case. "It's one reason not to date Sharon, though." 

"What're the other reasons?" To James' own surprise, even though he mostly asks to get his mind off the previous topic ( _I need to leave. I need to leave. This isn't safe. How did I not guess he'd be watched? Why didn't I prepare for this?_ ), he is actually curious.

With a sigh, Steve looks away. "She's Peggy's grandniece. It's just… Complicated."

Sharon, James decides, is nice enough. For someone who's likely writing a report on him right now. 

He needs to leave. 

He will.

But now he helps Steve make the dinner, takes a shower, eats, and then goes to sleep with Steve taking up the other side of the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the way I see it, Sharon might be officially watching Steve, but her loyalties are current much more with him than with anyone she works for.
> 
> When I started working on this story, I assumed it would end up being some 10 chapters. We're on chapter 9 and nowhere near done. I wonder how long it'll end up being. Thank you for sticking around so far!
> 
> Randomly, recently I bought a bunch of hair elastics James would love (for James' value of love). They're bright colors and they're meant to be worn as bracelets when you're not using them in your hair so not even his metal wrist would stretch them (they just wouldn't be as loose around it as they're supposed to be, I think).


	10. Chapter 10

Steve wakes up screaming.

It takes James a moment to realize what's going on, because he's half-asleep when he hears his name – _his_ name, the man's he was so many decades ago – and there's so much pain in the voice shouting it. By the time he orients himself, finds himself standing in a fight stance, Steve is already in the bathroom. 

The light above the mirror is on and Steve's hands are clutching the edges of the sink. His face is pale as a sheet when James follows and his eyes meet those of Steve's reflection. Steve's shoulders are tense and James expects him to be shaking, but he isn't. 

"You alright?" James asks. His voice is too loud and they both flinch. He thinks about resting his hands on Steve's shoulders, about massaging the spot between Steve's shoulder blades with his thumbs, but he doesn't. The echo of Steve's nightmare rings in his ears.

Steve nods. He turns the tap and splashes his face with cold water. He rubs his hand over his eyes. "Haven't had a dream like that in a while."

He can't mean a nightmare, because James knows Steve doesn't sleep peacefully. He is plagued by bad dreams and restless sleep and between the two of them, they rarely manage five hours a night, though they both prefer to lie in the darkness to actually acknowledging the issue.

Steve might mean the part where he woke up screaming, but James doesn't think so. He almost asks whether Steve used to dream about Bucky dying more often before James came around. Only he isn't sure he really wants to hear the answer. 

On an impulse, he steps closer and rests his hands on Steve's shoulders. They tense even more under his fingers; at least the right one does – the receptors of his left hand aren't sensitive enough to pick up subtle changes and he is left to assume. Then Steve relaxes. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

Steve's t-shirt is light blue, but there are dark patches of cold sweat on his back. He shakes his head, but he turns around and leans into James' space. He rests his cheek against James' shoulder and it has to be uncomfortable for him, considering their height difference, but he just closes his eyes and sighs. James wraps his arms around him. Carefully. Cautiously. 

He isn't sure how to provide comfort to someone. 

It was him who had offered, however. 

He rubs Steve's back uncertainly for a long time, unsure whether it helps. Minutes tick away and when he starts to feel like they've been standing there for a too long a time, he gently took the hold of Steve's elbow and pulled him back towards the bedroom. Back in his mind he knew he was talking, whispering some soothing nonsense, but he wasn't really paying attention to what came out of his mouth. It didn't matter.

They ended up on the opposite sides of Steve's bed again, lying on their sides facing each other. The light in the bathroom is still on, but it's barely enough to light up the bedroom. "Your accent," Steve whispered, speaking for the first time in a long while. 

"What 'bout it?" James asks. He is lying on the top of the covers and there are a few inches between him and Steve. The latter has become a standard situation and he is surprisingly comfortable with it. 

Steve's shadows moves as he shrugs. "You sound a lot more… Brooklyn, I guess. Right now." His voice is still low and James catches himself wondering why people do this, whisper when it's dark. It's only the two of them in the apartment – and maybe a bug or two, but whoever is listening to those shouldn't be sleeping anyway so it's not like they'd be inconsiderate by raising their voices. "Usually your accent is very generic American."

"Generic is my default," James admits and immediately switches back to it. It was the Soldier's default but it worked for James, too. After all, the only other accent that he could call his own is the Brooklyn one and that one was Bucky's. "I'm not sure what my range is, exactly, when it comes to accents, but I can speak a variety of languages and dialects." Steve is probably already aware of that, anyway ; already Bucky was fluent in a few.

"Were you doing it on purpose, just now?" There's something in Steve's voice that James can't identify. It's not an accusation. Uncertainty, perhaps. 

"No. Why would I?" Though now that he is thinking about it, he could see the reasoning behind it, perhaps. 

Steve lets out a breath, long and ragged. It's not quite a sigh. "Sam says-" He pauses for a moment. "Sam says people will tell you to just be yourself. But what they really mean is they want you to be the version of yourself they remember or that they believe you are. But it's normal for people to change. To change their style. Take up new hobbies. Start using a new vocabulary. To transform their lives. No one should be obliged to- To match someone else's expectations." 

There is a silence hanging between them. Pregnant one, with Steve waiting for James to say something.

Finally, James speaks: "I don't know what you're trying to say." 

This time, Steve sighs. "I think- I don't really know you. But I'd like to get to know you."

After a beat, James answers: "Yeah, okay." All the while, he is painfully aware that he isn't even sure if he himself knows who he is.

***

_"Should have run," Bucky said to the kid as he helped him to his feet._

_The other boy was bleeding from a cut on his lip and one of his teeth was loose. He pulled it out with a grimace and glared at it when it lay in his palm. He shook his head. "If you run, they catch you. Or they find you the next time they wanna beat someone up."_

_"And they won't if you put up a fight?" asked Bucky, rubbing his own side. A bruise was surely forming there and his clothes were filthy. His mother would be upset with him, but he had to have thrown himself into that squabble. Something had compelled him to come to aide when he saw the scrawny kid fighting with the rage and pride of a dragon._

_"They will," the still nameless boy answered. "But they'll think about it first, if it's worth it."_

_Later, Bucky would tell his mother about Steve, as the boy had turned out to be called, in a voice that betrayed what would remain true for years to come: Steve was trouble but he was also the most wonderful and inspiring force. Bucky just wanted to learn all there was to know about him and then some._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I'm publishing a drabble a day this August on my Tumblr, tagged as [August Drabbles](http://midnighttypewriter.tumblr.com/tagged/august-drabbles).


	11. Chapter 11

James has been staying at Steve's – living with him – for almost a month without having left the place, save for that one failed attempt. Though he doesn't particularly want to be honest with himself, if he were, he'd have to admit the idea of facing the outside world terrifies him.

He needs to do something about it.

Steve is leaving the place regularly, for a variety reasons, but he never insists James comes with him. He suggested it two or three times, but stopped pushing when James closed off. James almost wishes he hadn't.

It's Wednesday when he decides to face his issue. Steve is gone and the place is silent.

If he takes it step by step, he can do it. Maybe he can't leave the building yet, but he can brush his teeth as he does twice a day. He can shave and put on his jeans and the gray t-shirt he grew to like. He can choose one of Steve's hoodies, a red one, and hide his arm in its sleeve. He can put on shoes and tie his laces. Grab his phone. Take the spare set of keys. Gather his hair into a ponytail held together with a purple hairtie. Hide it under a baseball cap. 

He can do all that, step by step. He can step out the door, too, even though his breathing is suddenly faster and an invisible force presses against his ribs. He breathes in, holds his breath, breathes out. Just like when Bucky breathed with Steve through an asthma attack. A few repeats help some. He closes the door behind himself, represses the urge to open it again, locks behind himself. 

He waits for a few minutes with his back against the door and focused on his breathing. His mind is much clearer than it was the last time he left the apartment, but the last time he was distressed over something else. 

James walks down the hall and takes the stairs. The building doesn't have an elevator, but even if it did, he doesn't like the idea of being trapped in one. The window by the staircase is open enough to let some air in and with it the sounds of the street below. At the thought of the number of people sure to be outside, his chest starts tightening again.

One floor below Steve's apartment, he decides it's enough for the first try. It's not like he's prepared for a longer trip anyway. However, he can't bring himself to turn around and return to the apartment. Not because he doesn't want to, but because it feels a lot like giving up and that's not something he does. At least, he doesn't think he's the sort of person who gives up.

There's an apartment door in front of him. 

It's plain and normal and anonymous-looking. 

Agent Sharon Carter lives there, doesn't she? And she probably knows exactly what he is doing right now.

He takes a hesitant step towards the door. 

Then another. His legs feel a little unsteady.

He doesn't particularly want to talk to her, but he doesn't like the idea of her knowing exactly what his behavior today meant. When he rings the bell, he has no excuse ready. And Sharon doesn't give him time to think of one, because the door opens almost immediately. There's not much surprise in her expression when she sees him standing there, tense and uncomfortable.

"Thank you," he blurts out.

That does startle her and she looks at him curiously. "For?"

He shrugs with his left shoulder. "For not pretending that you didn't know I was coming." There is something to what Steve said, that knowing you're being watched makes it somewhat more bearable. The lack of pretending makes it less insulting. He still doesn't particularly like it, but there are few things he particularly likes these days.

"What would be the point?" she asks and there's almost a smile on her face. "What can I help you with?" She steps aside to let him in, something he didn't really expect her to do, but continues to watch him cautiously. She is armed, and he wishes she wasn't because it makes him feel on the edge, but he understands the need for it. Even without a weapon as he is, he could probably take her out. 

He doesn't want to.

Can't promise he won't find himself trying to if she makes the wrong move. 

He shouldn't have come. There's nothing of the calming effect of Steve's apartment, the safety he feels in it. Every step into Sharon's space, James has to control his reactions. "I have… questions," he says. His eyes scan the living room he finds himself in. Sharon's apartment has the same layout as Steve's and it's even less personal in its decoration. "About modern times. Which, well, I'm not sure Steve knows the answers to." He is making things up on the fly, but maybe talking to someone about the modern life isn't such a bad idea. 

Sharon's expression softens enough that she looks friendly. "Go ahead and ask."

"Do people even own irons anymore?" It's the first thing that's out of his mouth and he isn't certain why, but it's as good as anything. "Everything Steve wears is this stretchy fabric…" He pulls at the front of his own t-shirt. "Even half the pants he owns, I swear."

"Convenience," Sharon says with a small shrug but she nods her head in the direction of the kitchen. "I do have one. C'mon, I'll show you."

What she takes out of a cabinet once they are in the kitchen is a cardboard box that is much lighter than James expected it to be. He pulls the iron out, raises his eyebrows at all the buttons and settings. "It's vaguely iron-shaped, I'll give you that." He turns it around in his hand. "Electric ones were becoming really popular when… back in the late 30s." But as far as he knew, they came with way fewer functions. "But we had a sad iron." There is strange nostalgia spreading through his chest, a feeling which he isn't sure belongs to him. And for a minute standing there, he is irrationally upset with Bucky Barnes, because of all things to feel nostalgic about, he chooses the most arduous household chore that came with sweat and burns and sore arms. 

"Speaking of irons, let me show you one you might like better," Sharon says, already heading out of the room.

When two hours later Steve comes knocking on the door, he sounds distressed: "Sharon, do you know-" And then his eyes land on James and he pauses mid-sentence, his mouth open. 

"Sharon showed me how to straighten my hair," James says from where he is sitting on the sofa, flipping through a catalogue. "I'm not sure I like it better this way but- But I most definitely need bobby pins. Hey, do we know my clothing size? You have to, right, you've bought me clothes." He raises the catalogue enough so that Steve can see the clothes he is looking at. The catalogue has a section with men's fashion. "Also, Sharon says really no one washes their hair with soap anymore."

Steve's smile almost splits his face.

And James… he doesn't feel happy, not exactly, but he feels alive and almost human, and at the moment it's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter is self-indulgent. I wanted a light-hearted moment before things go downhill. So here we are.


	12. Chapter 12

A pizza delivery boy knocks on the wrong door by accident and the next thing James knows, he is being tackled to the floor by Steve while Sharon shields the invader. Delivery boy. Threat. 

"It's okay, James," Steve is saying over and over. He is holding Steve trapped in what could be a hug if it didn't effectively incapacitate him. "It was an honest mistake. It's okay."

Sharon closes and locks the door. "It's my fault. I should have—"

"No," James says. His voice is hoarse. "It was me. It was all me." He takes a raspy breath and when Steve lets go, he sits down on the floor. He is shaking. "We didn't order pizza. It was— It felt like— I've seen people do things like that. Not— Not the Soldier. He—"

"He had a more straightforward approach," Sharon finishes for him and he could hug her for using that pronoun.

"It was a good assessment of the situation," Steve says, sitting down to James. "Valid, if wrong. The reaction—"

"I almost killed him." 

"But you didn't." Sharon does a perimeter check while she talks to him, James notices. Today he is, for the first time, truly grateful for her being here. "I gave him a hundred and asked him to not talk about the incident."

"What if Steve wasn't here?" James looks at Steve, whose face is full of quiet concern. There's tension in his shoulders as if he was about to reach out but was physically stopping himself. James shuffles, just an inch, and when he gets closer Steve wraps his arms around him once again. He is warm and safe and strong.

"When I'm not here, you don't answer the door," Steve says. "Natasha and Sharon have keys. I'll let Natasha know to warn you in advance if she wants to come over." He looks at Sharon and she nods to show she understands it's an advice for her too. "If anyone else gets through, you can incapacitate them and then ask questions."

It sounds so easy when Steve says it, but James isn't sure it's a plan he can stick to. It's so much easier to kill, terminate, destroy than to simply incapacitate.

***

It ends up being the first in a long string of bad days. Instead of making any sort of progress on his plans, James spends all of his time wrapped in a blanket. He watches _Dorothy the Explorer_ , an episode after episode, because almost anything else is too overwhelming. Too much.

He ends up curled in a shower tub three times, twice after he wakes up screaming. Once he sits under a stream of warm water until his skin turns a glaring shade of pink. That's how Steve finds him when he comes home: dripping water and soaked jeans. 

"I'm useless," James says one evening. He is curled in the middle of the sofa, a blue patchwork blanket around his shoulders, and Steve is sitting on the floor. They're eating fried chicken with their fingers because it's a day even worse than most and the sound of cutlery makes James' teeth ache.

Steve pauses in eating. "First, your value doesn't depend on how useful you're to anyone. You're not supposed to be useful. All you ever need to do is _be_." 

"Yeah, of course," James snorts. He knows Steve, by proxy through Bucky and even personally after the weeks they've spent together. If Steve spent this long without being useful to anyone, preferably the world, he'd be going crazy.

"Second," Steve continues, "You need to work through a lot. And you're trying to do it alone and you shouldn't have to. There're people who could help. They don't just give you a bottle of whiskey and send you off to war again anymore. You—"

"We've had this conversation before," James says and pulls the blanket over his head. He regrets opening his mouth at all.


	13. Chapter 13

One day – it's one of James' good days, rare as they are – Steve nudges his knee with his own. When James looks at him across the sofa, Steve says: "When you first arrived, I thought you were going to stick around for a few days and then disappear." 

For a beat, James waits for Steve to continue, but Steve says nothing more, just looks at him expectantly. "Is that what you want me to do?" James asks. He had expected the same thing when he first found his way to Steve's door. Now he isn't so sure what he wants anymore.

"I'm asking if you're moving in properly," Steve said. 

"How would that differ from the way things currently are?" 

Steve smirked. "It'd come with half the wardrobe space and a list of house chores." 

Surprised, James blinks, then chuckles, then smirks and returns the knee nudge. Then he lifts his feet on the coffee table. "Does that mean you're done treating me like I'm going to break?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Steve shifts, crossing is arms on his chest, his expression closing off a little more. 

"I told you, I've got the memories from before." James is no longer comfortable referring to Bucky Barnes out loud as a separate person directly – not for his own sake but for Steve's. At some point, Steve's feeling has started to matter, and it's not a good thing to remind him that sitting here is his best friend's grave. "You're snarky and mouthy and reckless. Never would have guessed it on my own, the way you're tiptoeing around me. So, you done doing that?"

Steve gives him a long, serious look. "I'm done treating you like a stranger, I guess," he says finally and gets up to refill his glass. On his way to the kitchen, he knocks James' feet off the coffee table. "You haven't answered my question."

"Yeah, I think I'm staying for a bit longer. Do I get to choose which house chores I get to do?" James calls after him. He doesn't bother to get up to his feet, but he watches Steve. There are many things James hates about his life, the fact that he still haven't been able to leave the building properly included, but Steve is not one of them. A part of James' brain, a part he thinks might be irreparably broken and full of anger and pain, wants to hate him, because maybe if he didn't have the safety net of Steve's giant gentle hands, he'd be forced to face his fears. But he can't hate Steve. Or distrust him. He isn't sure whether it's because Bucky Barnes loved him above anyone else, or because he himself sees a glimpse of what Bucky saw.

"As long as you don't insist on cooking!" Steve calls back from the kitchen. 

James smiles to himself against his will.

His smile fades when Steve comes back and says: "And how about you come running with me one of these days? Or to the gym? I know places where you'd be… not unwelcome."

***

_"Stop coddling me," Steve snapped. "Not you. Of all people,_ you _should know better." His hands were in fists and his tense shoulders shook. Yet he was still pale like a sheet after his most recent illness. "Just tell me how much I owe at the apothecary."_

_"You don't owe anything," Bucky said tiredly. "I'm not coddling ya. I bought the meds." The owner knew his parents, let him take things on a good word. He still needed to pay for them eventually, however._

_"For me," Steve insisted. "I don't wanna you do these things for me."_

_"Maybe I just didn't want ya to die in my bed." It was a mean thing to say, but why couldn't Steve ever listen? Why couldn't he focus on just getting better and staying healthy and leave worrying about those other things to Bucky just for a bit? Why did he have to do everything alone?_

_But it was one of those arguments he could never win. He argued for a while longer even after he realized that maybe he shouldn't be – they were both stubborn bastards. Then Steve walked out, slamming the door behind him._

_They met again a few hours later on the fire escape. It was already dark and the air was chilly, but Bucky chose not to say anything about Steve sitting there. He said instead: "I talked to the apothecary. You can work away the debt."_

_Steve nodded and patted the spot beside him and Bucky sat down. He didn't say he wished he could take care of both of them without running them into debt. Steve didn't need him to take care of him and Bucky knew that well enough, but that didn't mean he didn't want to do it anyway. Just like he wants Steve to take care of him. He'd never be able to explain it to Steve without upsetting him or without admitting things he didn't really want to accept himself._

***

James messages Natasha the moment Steve leaves the apartment. He doesn't know how to talk to Steve about some things. Yes, Steve is broken in his own ways, but James isn't sure he can understand. Steve has somehow managed to make himself fit into this new world, even if it's far from effortless. James finds himself more and more an outsider.

But he needs to try harder. Especially if Steve has noticed his reluctance to go outside, and his need for physical exercise. He exercises some, when he can bring himself to, but it's not enough. The serum he was given does a lot for his body, but it doesn't build muscle mass on its own and he needs to carry the heavy arm around. He is starting to notice increasing pain in his shoulders and neck, he feels like he is leaning to the left side a little more. He needs to work on his back and core.

But he can barely step through the door without tension starting to build in his chest. He is starting to think he fears the idea of having a panic attack more than he feels uncomfortable about going outside. Or maybe it's one and the same thing. He isn't sure.

So he texts Natasha. Steve had saved her number in James' phone under her name, but James had changed it to her codename almost immediately. He would admit it was due to his reluctance to accept they could be friends.

 **to:** Black Widow  
I need you to go shopping with me. You can consider it a favor I'll owe you for.

He doesn't expect her to respond immediately, but the reply comes in seconds.

 **from:** Black Widow  
Sure, where do we meet? :)

 **to:** Black Widow  
No, I need you to come here first.

He isn't sure she understands, but she just might be the only one who possibly could. She texts him to be ready in thirty; he is dressed and waiting for her in twenty five and trying really hard to not think of ways to excuse himself at the last moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took so awfully long. This story can be rather emotionally taxing to write for some reason and life's been exhausting so it's been difficult to find the energy. Thank you everyone who's found the time to read and comment and leave kudos - it means a lot ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: [midnighttypewriter](http://midnighttypewriter.tumblr.com/).


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